


The Bitterest of Glories

by DachOsmin



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anonymous Sex, Boromir Lives, Fix-It, Gay Bar, Guilt, Hook-Up, Identity Porn, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining, Secret Identity, Shame, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29600805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: While on a visit to a tavern that caters to men with certain proclivities, Boromir meets a handsome northern ranger. Afterwards, he resolves to bury the shameful desires the meeting inspired in him—and succeeds, until his father bids him travel to Rivendell, to attend a secret counsel…
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

One evening on the cusp of autumn, Boromir decides to make a visit to the lower rings of the city.

He does not come to the decision all at once; rather, it builds over the course of the day. As he goes about his duties, he finds himself snapping at other guardsmen, his skin feels too tight, and every little thing seems an annoyance. By the time the sun has begun to dip towards the horizon, he knows what he must do.

He sups with his men that night, as he often does. The food is better in the citadel than in the barracks, but fine eastern spices do little to warm the chill of his father’s icy table. Boromir is at ease in the mess hall, sharing good-natured japes with his men as he ladles himself a bowl of hearty stew. He picks up a hunk of good brown bread to go with the stew, and if the crust is tougher than boot leather at least here Boromir is among friends that he can share his griping with. 

But of course, there are things he cannot share with them.

As the men finish their stew and admit defeat against their bread crusts, Boromir’s eyes begin to drift towards the door. There’s a restless jitter in his foot, and a queasiness in his stomach—but then it’s always thus, before a visit. Best go, then, get it over with.

As his second in command begins to make noises about a game of dice, Boromir drains the last of the ale from his tankard and sets it down on the table decisively. “Don’t lose all your pay at once, Padrion,” he orders.

Padrion snorts. “I certainly shan’t if you play, commander.”

Boromir rolls his eyes; Padrion had won a week’s pay off him the last time they’d diced. “I would, but I’m to the lower rings tonight.” And with that he rises from the table, not bothering to feign disappointment at missing the game.

Padrion whistles low as Hador makes a jape, and Alag and Alrveldir titter in the background. They all think he has a sweetheart hidden away that he goes to visit, some lowborn girl his father would never approve of. It’s a harmless enough offense for a man of his age and position; he has no wife or office to honor with fidelity. No one would fault him a sweet-faced lowborn mistress. Not like they would fault him if they knew the truth.

Boromir pauses at the door and takes a moment to look back over his shoulder at his men before he leaves. Arveldir is grinning at him, Hador has a lascivious smirk, Padrion is already busy clearing the table of platters and setting out his dice. What would they think, if they knew the truth?

He pulls the hood of his cloak down over his face before throwing the door open and stepping out into the night. May they never find out.

***

The tavern has no name, or at least if it does, Boromir has never heard it spoken aloud. Other taverns in the lower rings of the city proudly display their names on carved signposts that hang over the entryways, the weathered wood painted with festive colors and rough pictures for those who cannot read. But that would not serve the purpose of this place.

He knows it solely as the place he goes to give in to the urges he should not have. It’s the place that he skulks off to after nights of sleeplessness and sweat-soaked sheets. It’s the place he goes to drown the voices in his head, calm his body enough that he can affect a smile, and go about his duties during the following day. It is a place no steward’s son should ever go.

And yet, as of late Boromir has made a habit of it.

It pains him to admit even that much. There was still a time, not long ago, when after every visit he would pretend that it had been a one-off thing, that the present visit was his last. But it has been years now, years of clandestine visits every few months, and the longings in his heart and his gut have not disappeared.

The building is wedged between two others that dwarf it, set back a few steps from the street so that the entryway is perpetually cast in darkness. The windows that flank the door show nothing but heavy black curtains, a thick film of dust, and the faintest glimmer of flickering candlelight. It is altogether a place of grimy shadows, partly by the poverty of the establishment and partly, of course, by design.

He opens the door and steps inside.

The tavern is a single room, long and narrow. The bar runs the length of one wall, whereas the other is cluttered with an array of battered and rickety tables and chairs. In the far back of the room is a staircase swathed in darkness, leading up to rooms for rent by the night or the candle mark, whichever best suits the needs of the patron in question.

Boromir has a routine he follows when he comes here: In through the door, a swift glance to make sure no one he knows is here, then a seat at the bar, where he buys a tankard of ale, which he does not drink. Then he waits for one of the other men to meet his eyes, and they leave together, either upstairs to a private room or off to his companion’s residence.

Aesthetics do not factor into it. This is not about finding a man that is pleasing to him. No man should be pleasing to him. This is about scratching a damnable itch, sucking poison from a wound so that he can go about his business the next day.

Boromir expects this visit will be much the same. And so he is struck flatfooted when he sees the man seated at the table across from the bar.

Even seated, Boromir can tell that the man is tall. He lounges like a king on his throne as he smokes; the light of the embers in his pipe flares in time with his breathing. The embers burn a cherry red that illuminates the lower planes of the man’s face and above, the gleam of eyes.

Boromir can see little enough of the man beyond that, but what he can see makes his throat dry and his stomach twist with want. Every measure of skin exposed, every hint of the figure beneath the road-stained leathers speaks to a warrior well-built and battle-hardened. The sword and hunting knife at his hip look well used; what must they look like in the grip of those broad, sure hands? What would those hands feel like coursing over skin?

Want hits Boromir like a sword-thrust, and he is powerless to do anything but feel the weight of his own lust. It is a helpless feeling, like he has just entered a battle armorless, exposed.

And even worse, the man is watching him.

“Well met,” the man murmurs, and oh, his voice is deep and rich as a goblet of dark wine. “Have a drink with me.”

It is a forward, far too forward even in such a place, and some part of Boromir wants to take offense, to yell at this stranger to be even a breath more careful, to censure him for wearing his desire so lewdly and openly on his sleeve. But only a part of him. The rest wants… something else entirely.

Well. It’s why he’s here, after all. Drawing a breath for courage, he steps away from the bar and moves over to the fellow’s table, taking in the man’s patched green cloak and worn boots as he does. A traveler, then, perhaps a ranger from a north. It’s the best he could hope for in a tryst: the stranger will be away tomorrow, never to be seen again. There’s no risk of running into him in the market, or skies forbid, in his father’s halls.

But tomorrow is tomorrow, and tonight the stranger’s eyes on him are heavy, and his smile warm. Swallowing, Boromir seats himself. Their feet knock beneath the table, and even through two layers of boot leather the contact makes Boromir’s stomach flip.

The man tilts his head, considering. “What’s your name?”

“Boromir,” he says, and immediately wants to curse himself for a fool. In all the times he has come here he has always given a false name, or given none at all.

He braces himself for widened eyes, the jerk of recognition, and wonders with a dull horror whether there will be rumors whispered of the steward’s son in the markets by morning.

But there is no recognition in the man’s eyes, at least not that he can see. “Thorongil,” the man says after a moment’s pause, and Boromir is caught between relief that his secret is safe and disappointment that he has not merited the same measure of trust from the man, for Thorongil has the flavor about it of a pseudonym if ever there was one. “Well met,” he says at last.

“I’ve not been in the city for some time,” Thorongil says, as if this were an innocent chance meeting. “Tell me: what news is there to speak of?”

“I did not come here to talk,” Boromir says through gritted teeth. “Do you have lodging nearby, or shall I pay for a room?”

Thorongil’s eyes narrow. Boromir resists the urge to fidget; he feels as if he’s being studied, layers of himself peeled back like the skins of an onion, until the ranger can read the inner parts of him, the soft and shameful pieces he takes care to hide away. “I have a room above,” Thorongil says at last.

It scares him, the sudden excitement that floods his body. The man is naught but a stranger. Boromir should not feel so strongly or want so deeply as he does. He coughs, gestures towards the stairs. “Then shall we?”

He’s rewarded with that same maddening gaze, and then Thorongil ducks his head in a courtly gesture that feels somehow mocking. “After you.”

***

Boromir mounts the stairs of the inn with the same mix of dread and anticipation that comes in the moments before battle. He clenches and unclenches his hands, wipes the sweat of his palms off on the fabric of his breeches.

Thorongil is a steady presence behind him, silent but for the low cadence of his breathing. His steps are preternaturally quiet compared to the thumping of Boromir’s own boots.

At the top of the stairs he stands for a moment in growing panic; in his haste to go upstairs he’d neglected to ask which room the ranger was staying in.

“Last on the left,” Thorongil murmurs, close enough that his breath heats the shell of Boromir’s ear and tickles the hair on the nape of his neck. Boromir shivers, and makes for the door.

He undoes the rusted hasp and pushes the wood open; it swings inward with a creak. The noise makes him wince, eyes darting back and forth down the narrow hallway to see if anyone is around to notice. But they are alone. Still, he wastes no time stepping over the threshold into the spare bedroom beyond.

No one would stay here for the comfort of the furnishings or the charm of the decor. The room is narrow and dark, a sloping roof of undressed wood low enough on one end of the room that one would have to stoop to reach the small table huddled under the eaves. The bed is on the other end of the room, the headboard abutting the bare stone that makes up the fourth wall. The slats of the floor are uneven, and in the absence of any windows the only light comes from a guttering tallow candle resting on a stool beside the bed.

Boromir stares at the bed for a moment. Here he is again, back where he’s sworn he would not return. The sheets, at least, will be clean, if rough. He knows that from previous visits, his face shoved against the mattress as he trembled on his knees and elbows.

Behind him, the quiet sound of the door creaking closed, and the click of the inner hasp locking. A step on the floor, loud enough that Boromir suspects Thorongil is telegraphing his movements to avoid spooking him, the way one might approach a spooked horse.

Taking a deep breath, Boromir braces himself for the familiar fumblings of bodies long denied: thighs thrust between legs, savage thrusts of hips, curses as teeth clack together.

But there is none of that. Instead Thorongil brings his hand, so slowly, so gently, to rest on his shoulder, turning him about so that they face each other. With a gentle smile, he lifts his other hand to caress Boromir’s head, as if he were something precious. Boromir’s breath catches as those rough fingers trace the line of his brow with a reverence utterly at odds with their situation. The gentleness undoes him, like a punch to the gut. “Hurry up,” he bites out. “I’ve not all night.”

Thorongil chuckles. “Never fear, I’ll leave you time to trudge back to the upper circles before the guardsmen begin their rounds.”

The hairs on the back of his neck jolt to attention. Is this a trap? Has he been set up? “How…”

“Your boots,” Thorongil says patiently.

Boromir blinks. “My—my boots?” He looks down at them, but sees nothing to illuminate him.

“Commoners’ boots are not edged in velvet,” Thorongil says, smiling. “I imagine you’re a scion of some noble house forced to range further afoot for that which you desire. But be at ease, I’ve seen no more behind your mask than that.”

Boromir swallows. “Oh,” he says.

“Now, where was I?” Thorongil’s hand trails down to press against the side of Boromir’s jaw, rough fingerpads smoothing over his beard. Thorongil leans in, as if to kiss him. And Boromir should protest—his is not some romance between them, they are not a love match from one of the old tales—but he is helpless under the fierce pinning of those dark eyes, and so he stands frozen as Thorongil leans in and brushes their lips together

Oh! But it is perfect enough to make him weep. The scrape of stubble against his cheek, the roughness of masculine lips… Boromir lets his mouth fall open, allows Thorongil to cradle the back of his head, twist his sword-hand into Boromir’s hair, slot their mouths together.

He has been kissed in lust; he has been kissed in want, he has been kissed in frantic need, but he has never been kissed like this. Slow and gentle, all deft touches of tongue and soft nuzzling of lips. Thorongil kisses like he has all night, like he has a lifetime to explore Boromir’s mouth. Like he would _want_ to spend a lifetime kissing Boromir.

And Boromir should protest, but it is somehow very hard to think of _should_ or _ought_ in the face of Thorongil’s single minded implacability. He admits defeat, lets himself be kissed, too overwhelmed by the revelation of Thorongil’s lips on his own to do anything else. Before long he is made an accomplice, bringing his hands up to cling at the front of Thorongil’s cloak as his eyes fall shut and his head falls back.

Each touch of Thorongil’s lips sends heat to pool in his belly. The warmth of his arousal grows steadily, until he is afire with it, his hands trembling and his cock hard in his breeches.

He reaches down to palm himself, but quick as a wink, Thorongil grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away.

“Not so fast, man of Gondor,” Thorongil whispers against his ear, breathing ragged. “I wish to touch you myself.”

The bolt of want that hits Boromir is as sudden as it is unexpected. The ownership in his voice, and the weight of the command… it sets him afire, and he cannot help but moan into Thorongil’s kiss.

Thorongil growls at that, slotting a leg between Boromir’s thighs and bucking their bodies together as he draws Boromir into another open mouthed kiss.

Boromir gasps at the sudden friction against his hardening length, absurdly grateful to feel a twin hardness jutting against his own hip. His head falling forward against Thorongil’s chest, he ruts against the other man’s leg again. It’s not enough, more than anything he wants to feel skin against skin, wants to feel Thorongil’s hands on him.

He reaches for Thorongil’s clothing this time, fumbling at the clasps of the other man’s tunic, and this time Thorongil lets him, pausing his kissing to help Boromir with the ties of his bracers and the clasp of his belt.

Thorongil’s eyes are dark in the candlelight. “Do you like what you see?” he asks with a gentle smile, and Boromir should rebuke him for the presumption, but he finds he cannot form the words.

Because he _does_ like what he sees. Thorongil is a sight enough to make him weep, in truth: his skin is gold-tempered in the light of the fire, his frame is wrapped in ropey muscle with a light dusting of hair. His fingers itch; he aches to touch, to taste.

And then Thorongil is offering him a wicked smile as his hands drop to the ties of his breeches. Boromir holds his breath as Thorongil pulls the knot apart and slips his breeches down, exposing his cock to the air.

Boromir’s heart speeds up and his own length twitches in his breeches. Thorongil’s cock is long, thick, and already half-hard. He wants to touch it. He wants…

Thorongil’s boots fall to the floor with a series of thunks, and then there’s nothing more to remove: Thorongil is bare before him, from the pale arches of his feet to the broad expanse of his chest to his glorious, glorious cock. And how is it that Thorongil is naked and Boromir is fully clothed, but Boromir feels he is the one exposed, stripped bare in front of Thorongil’s too knowing eyes?

It is all too much; on the last two visits to the tavern his partners had kept their clothing on, doing little more than shoving their breeches down to their knees. To see Thorongil so unashamed, so completely, gloriously naked, laid out before him like a feast—!

Thorongil steps towards him and draws him into another kiss, this one hungry and wet. “How do you like to take your pleasure?” he asks as he pulls back, desire dark in his eyes.

The question hits Boromir like a bucket of ice water; he goes rigid in Thorongil’s arms. “I am no woman.”

Thorongil seems almost… puzzled? “Clearly you are not,” he says after a moment’s pause, “and I am glad of it. But what does that have to do with bedsport?”

Curses, must he spell this out? “I’ll not play a woman’s part,” he grits. _Nor should you_ , he wants to say—Thorongil is clearly a red-blooded fighter, a proud warrior, a man’s man. Boromir should abhor the thought of Thorongil abasing himself so. But the thought makes his blood race and so he holds his tongue, and hates himself for it. If he would not sin himself, but eagerly leads another into sin, is he any better?

Thorongil must see all this on his face, for he lets his hands fall away and steps back, his face a mask. “No matter, I’m happy enough to ride you.”

Boromir’s cock twitches at the mere thought. What a hypocrite he is. “A man should not be happy to do such a thing,” he whispers despite himself.

“Then I suppose you’ve never heard of what the men of the north do on cold nights.” There’s a wry smile on Thorongil’s tongue, and something like sadness in his eyes. He looks knowing. Too knowing.

Boromir swallows roughly. “Very—very well,” he says, looking away. “Do as you wish.”

“Oh, but I will,” Thorongil murmurs, and then he is moving into Boromir’s space once more, pushing him back against the wall and attacking the clasps of his tunic with a single minded intensity. Boromir lets his head fall back against the wall as he feels Thorongil’s clever fingers strip him bare. The other man’s hard length presses against his thigh, so close to his own cock, only a single layer of fabric between the two.

As if reading his mind, Thorongil rolls his hips so that their cocks grind together, and Boromir cannot help but cry out.

“You’re ripe for this, unless I miss my mark,” Thorongil murmurs, and then he’s undoing Boromir’s breeches and shoving them to the floor.

Boromir collects his wits enough to pull off his boots with clumsy hands before stepping out of his breeches. He has no time to feel abashed by his nakedness, for as soon as he drops his breeches Thorongil is manhandling him over to the bed and pushing him down upon it. “Lie back,” he says as he clambers into Boromir’s lap to offer him another filthy kiss.

Boromir does as he’s bid and watches with wide eyes as Thorongil shifts his thighs to bracket Boromir’s own, lining himself up with Boromir’s aching length. He blinks, trying to focus. To be sure, he has done this only a few times: most visits to the tavern feature only hands or mouths but… “Don’t you need to… ah, that is to say, I do not wish to hurt you.”

Thorongil throws back his head and laughs. “Ah, you are sweet to be concerned, but there is no need. I prepared myself before I came downstairs.”

Lust hits Boromir like a spear shaft. The image blindsides him: Thorongil, laying on this very bed, legs spread as he fingered himself open. Had he been loud and shameless as he worked, or quiet? Had he lingered and enjoyed the act, or prepared himself briskly, too eager for the night ahead to tarry?

That Thorongil had readied himself before going out hunting, that Thorongil had caught _him_ —!

So overwhelmed is he by the thought that he misses the wicked gleam in Thorongil’s eye, and is blindsided when his cock is suddenly enveloped in tight wet heat.

He cries out; he cannot help it. His head falls back on the mattress and his eyes fall shut as Thorongil sinks down upon him, inch by implacable inch. There is nothing he can do but lie there and take whatever Thorongil sees fit to give him.

When he regains enough of his senses to open his eyes and look up, he is greeted by a sight he knows will stay with him for the rest of his life. Thorongil, mouth thrown open and eyes clenched shut, breathing in reedy little gasps, his thighs trembling with the strain as he impales himself on Boromir’s cock. His face is that of a man overwhelmed, but not by pain. And his cock, hard and aching against the taut planes of his stomach, evinces nothing but pleasure.

Boromir is seized with a need to touch him, and so he does, his hands stuttering over the sweet-sheened muscles of Thorongil’s thighs and the swell of his ass. He wants to touch every part of him, map his body with his hands until he can discover whatever witchery has undone Boromir so completely.

Thorongil, meanwhile, finally seats himself fully on Boromir’s cock. He pauses there for a moment, smiling down at Boromir with something akin to tenderness. And then, with a filthy grin, he begins to move.

 _Oh_ —! It is enough to ruin a man, and Boromir lets himself be ruined. The pleasure is all encompassing; Boromir can do naught but claw at the sheets and toss his hed to and fro against the pillows as Thorongil fucks himself on his cock. Boromir brings a hand to his mouth to quiet his cries, but Thorongil yanks it away. “No, man of Gondor,” he says breathlessly. “I want to hear you.”

And so Boromir screams out his pleasure; his hoarse yells and his high, whimpering moans, as Thorongil wrings him dry, plays him like an instrument, well and truly fucks him.

Through it all, Thorongil is implacable. He commits to a slow and sensual pace, as if he wishes to savor his debauchery of Boromir like one might a fine wine. He brooks no argument, no matter how much Boromir twists and pleads and threatens beneath him. Boromir, who has only ever done this is rough and hard, with quick fumblings and a just as quick withdrawal, is trapped by the overwhelming pleasure of their coupling, a slave to the lassitude, breathless at each thrust of Thorongil’s hips.

And even though he is the one fucking into Thorongil, there is still a thrilling measure of passivity in it. It shames him how much he likes it, to be beneath Thorongil in this way. What would it be like to submit completely, to be breached and fucked by him? To be at his mercy, to be taken—?

The mere thought is enough to undo him. As Boromir’s orgasm hits him, Thorongil fucks him through it with hard snaps of his hips, digging his fingers into the flesh of Boromir’s waist so that he is helpless to do anything but revel in the sensations as Thorongil’s own peak hits a moment later, jerking and pulsing, branding him from the inside out.

Thorongil is loud where Boromir had muffled his pleasure; he comes with a shout, bucking hard against Boromir’s back before collapsing onto the bed beside him. They spend a moment like that, side by side, panting heavily in the shadowed confines of the bed.

Boromir shivers. As the deliciousness of his orgasm fades away and the sweat cools on his skin, the shame sets in, as it always does. He feels not only debased, but oddly fragile too, as if he were an eggshell in the shape of a man, hollow and in danger of cracking apart.

Thorongil seems to harbor no such shame. He sits up to wipe the sweat from his brow with a spare cloth and then collapses on the bed next to Boromir, laughing softly. He flings a hand out, idly twirling a strand of Boromir’s hair around his finger. It is an innocent enough gesture, but Boromir cannot help but tense.

Thorongil stills and turns to peer at him. “Why so sad, man of Gondor? Did you not enjoy yourself?”

His face is marred by a look of such concern that something twists in Boromir’s chest, and he has to look away. He settles for focusing on the guttering candle on the sideboard, and picks his words carefully before he speaks. “I despair that I did. It is a vile thing.”

Out of the corner of Boromir’s vision he can see Thorongil open his mouth as if to reply, and then close it. “It was not always considered thus,” Thorongil says at last, a hint of sadness in his voice. “And it will not be so forever.”

An easy thing for a ranger to say. “You should not speak of things you know nothing about,” Boromir snaps, with more heat in his voice than he intended. It is no fault of Thorongil’s that he doesn’t understand. Out on the northern wastes tradition is not a vise that chokes the living for generations. Only a foreigner could imagine that things might one day be different, changed as easily as a man changes his tunic.

The silence that comes after his rebuke feels suffocating. Boromir has tarried too long already. Refusing to look in Thorongil’s direction, he rolls from the bed, pulls his clothing back on, and makes for the exit. He thinks he hears a soft sigh as he lets the door swing shut behind him, but perhaps he’s only imagining it.

The walk back to the upper city is unpleasant. Hidden beneath his clothing, sweat and semen stain his skin. The deeper stains do not show, but he can feel them all the same.

He marvels, as he always does, that no one, not passersby nor his comrades nor friends nor family, will notice the taint. But he knows it’s there all the same, and knows that for days afterwards, every word, no matter how innocuous, will feel like a lie as he speaks it.

***

Thrice more he goes to the tavern that month. Each time he looks for Thorongil; each time he is disappointed. He leaves by himself the first two times, but on his third visit he trysts with another man to quell the roiling in his stomach, a merchant with shifty eyes and onions on his breath.

Their coupling is a quick moment in the alley behind the tavern, all fumbled hands and awkward angles. Release, when it comes, is unsatisfying. Mercifully, the merchant does not remark upon the name Boromir cries out as he spends.

He gives up on the tavern then, although he knows he will be back eventually. Even the brief release it brings him is not worth the gnawing shame in his stomach, the ashen taste in his mouth. He wills himself to forget the tavern and Thorongil both. But in the depths of the night he lies in his lonely bed and succumbs to the memories despite his best efforts. He takes himself in hand, strokes, and remembers.

In this, at least, he is afforded the smallest of mercies: the cold stone of the citadel offers no censure as he spends with the name of a man on his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been banging around in my head for ages and I figured it was time to show the first chapter to the world. The full story should be four chapters or so and will span the length of the trilogy. Many thanks to the wonderful Myr for cheerleading!!!
> 
> Comments of any flavor are very appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

Months pass. The orcs grow bolder on the eastern shores of the Anduin; the shadows in Boromir’s father’s council chambers stretch longer. Sullen clouds hover on the eastern horizon, their heights crowned with lightning that crackles red against the twilight.

Boromir knows in his heart of hearts that the center cannot hold. Gondor’s forces, already stretched thin, are pushed to the breaking point in the face of the coming storm. He does his best to shore up the city’s defenses and bolster the morale of his men, but it is only a matter of time before something breaks. Between meetings and patrols there is no time to visit the tavern in the lower city; there is barely time to sleep. When he does, his dreams are fearful things: full of shades and shadows and other figures, darker still.

When his father calls for him and bids him travel to Rivendell he is absurdly, ashamedly grateful: at least he will have precious moments to himself as he travels, without the weight of his city’s future resting on his shoulders quite so heavily. He sets out the next day with a company of handpicked men at his back. They ride north.

The wilds are lovely. It gladdens his heart to see bright sunlight coursing through greenery and birds tittering in the brambles. Somehow, he hadn’t realized how long he had spent holding his breath underneath the shadow of the East. The darkness has not yet reached as far as these wild places: here there is still land unspoiled. The birds sing and the streams babble and the moss grows here in perfect innocence. Even the air smells different: imbued with the wet humus of growing things, the sharp bite of cold air down from the mountains, and not even the faintest trace of ash.

He finds himself wondering if Thorongil ever rode these paths, saw these peaks, listened to the songs of these strange northern birds. What an odd life it would be, to roam lonely and free, with no expectations or responsibilities, no weighty name to dictate the terms of one’s life.

He directs his men along the old south road, at the foot of the White Mountains. They come to the Horselords’ hall at Edoras in the ebbing of summer, and spend a night resting and drinking sour beer at the king’s high table. Their hosts ask them to stay longer; the king’s nephew in particular spins a fine argument for a month’s stay, replete with feasts and hunting trips. But Boromir gently declines the offer. He’s been given a task and he means to see it through; even one night’s delay already feels as if he’s shirking his duties. In this quest, at least, he can do his father proud.

The morning after they’ve arrived at Edoras, he rises from his bedroll in the great hall and packs his things before waving farewell to the Horselords and cantering out into the grasslands beyond.

He allows himself to accept the gift of Rohirric horses for him and his men, at least. He tells himself it’s sensible: their sure hooves know the landscape better than any of his men, and accepting the gift makes their hosts smile.

They thread the gap of Rohan, ford the Isen, and then there’s nowhere to go but north, through Enedwaith and along the skirts of the Misty Mountains, until they arrive at the place where the rocks of the mountains cleave apart amidst graceful arcs of water: Rivendell.

***

Boromir and his men arrive at the gates in the first blush of twilight. A small group of attendants is there to greet them, each bowing low in turn.

“Well met, Lord Boromir,” one of the elves says.

Boromir looks around as he dismounts and hands his horse’s reins off to a waiting servant. He can hear his men gasp and exclaim behind him as they take in the graceful towers and pavilions of Lord Elrond’s demesne. Such a beautiful hall, the elves have. The light is golden and the leaves are green. In the distance, he can hear errant threads of flute song.

There is no smoke in the air, no shadow on the horizon.

Something curdles in his stomach. His people wake every day in the gloom of the east. What right do these elves have to speak for Middle Earth, when they bear none of the burdens of it?

“My men are weary,” he says to the elf, perhaps more curtly than is merited. “Show us to our rooms.”

If the elf is offended, he does not show it. He bows again, as smoothly as the drawing of a bow. “Please, follow me.”

***

Boromir is impressed by his appointed chambers despite himself. The furniture is skillfully carved, the rugs and curtains are of fine weave, and the air is warm and fragrant with the smell of burning herbs.

And wonder of wonders, there is a tub of hot water resting in the center of the room, with all manner of sweet-smelling lotions and unguents set out on a small table beside it.

Boromir strips himself of his soiled leathers and throws himself into the water, letting out an indecent moan at the heat and the wetness. He allows himself to indulge, lazing in the water and sluicing soap through his hair until all the dirt of the road sloughs off and he feels, for the first time since he left the White City, blessedly clean.

He waits until the water turns tepid before exiting the bath, barely managing to drag himself to the bed.

The sheets are smooth, the blankets are warm, and the feather mattress is soft beneath him. He slips into a deep sleep the moment his head hits the pillow. He does not dream.

***

The day of the council meeting arrives with bright sunshine streaming in through Boromir’s windows.

After performing his morning ablutions, he arrays himself in a fine set of clothing he has kept carefully sealed away in an oilskin until now. He knows not who else will be in attendance, but it will be important to assert Gondor’s dominance. Gondor has been at the forefront of the protection of the West; Gondor is the shield of all other free people of middle earth, and as a shield it has been battered hard while these elves drank their wine and strummed their lutes in song. It is important that Gondor is afforded the respect that its sacrifices have merited.

By the time he is fully arrayed, nothing can shake his confidence. He catches a glimpse of himself in a looking glass as he leaves his chambers and is gratified to see that he looks every inch a noble son of Gondor. He will take charge of this meeting; he will do his father and his people proud.

And so he walks through the halls of Rivendell and into Lord Elrond’s council circle with his back straight and his head held high, and it’s with a regal eye that he looks over each member of the assembled throng in turn. Elves, more elves, dwarves, a pair of smooth-chinned children, Lord Elrond, and—

And—

Thorongil.

He blinks. It is a mistake. It must be a mistake. Thorongil cannot be here. It is some other ranger that looks like him, or some trick of the light.

The ranger looks up, and their eyes meet.

It’s him. There is recognition there, and a faint sense of surprise. Thorongil offers him a slow blink and a polite nod, and nothing more.

It is a near thing, but Boromir manages to school his face to evenness and return the nod before collapsing into an empty chair.

He can’t look at Thorongil, but he can’t look anywhere else. In the end he settles for staring at the carved stone of the floor. It’s rude, but he can’t help himself; let the others think him over weary from his journey. All he can think about is Thorongil. Why is he here? Who sent him? The rangers of the north have a stake in the fate of Middle Earth, as surely as any men do, but do they truly merit a seat at the table of Lord Elrond? And why this ranger in particular?

Does Thorongil remember Boromir? Has he thought of him, these long months? Boromir curses himself; it is folly to think that their tryst was anything special, anything worth remembering. For all he knows, Thorongil might bed a different man every night of the week, and touch each one of them with the same reverence and tenderness that he had afforded Boromir. Thinking of Thorongil fucking other men kindles a sourness in his stomach.

He is abruptly ashamed of himself. He should not care how Thorongil thinks of him, or if he thinks of him at all. The man was a useful set of hands and a warm hole to fuck. Nothing more.

Boromir steals a glance at Thorongil while he’s deep in conversation with the wizard. Thorongil is well dressed now: he wears a doublet of midnight blue velvet with silver embroidery at the cuffs. His beard is neatly trimmed and his hair tressed in a neat half plait. What that plait would feel like in Boromir’s hands, what that stubble would feel like scratching against Boromir’s skin…

He is staring, he realizes. He jerks his head away awkwardly and resumes glaring at the floor with ill grace. His mind is still whirling, caught between conjecture and shameful thoughts of sweat and gasping breaths, and so he is caught wholly unprepared when the wizard’s weary voice cuts through the murmurs of the other council members.

“The one ring has been found.”

***

There is little that could pull Boromir’s attention away from Thorongil, but that certainly does it.

Whispers spring up around him as the elves and the dwarves turn to their neighbors to mutter and murmur. Boromir can pick out words here and there, but he has no attention to spare for them. The words wash over him like wavelets on the shore; all his attention is fixed on the halfling that is even now standing from his seat and walking on unsteady feet to the plinth at the center of the council circle.

In his hand, a flash of gold. Boromir’s breath catches as he places the ring down against the cold stone.

The ring. The one ring. It is a slight thing, but brilliant: the metal flashes and gleams in the sunlight. He is suddenly sure that it would be warm to the touch, like a lover’s skin. He is seized with the need to test the theory. It would be a simple enough thing, to stand up and lean in, let his finger trace the curve of the band, slip inside…

“The doom of men…” someone murmurs to his left.

Boromir blinks, coming back to himself. He must say something to that at least; he must respond. He came here with a duty, with a task to fulfill. He must take charge of this meeting, make them see what he sees. Turning to the man that had spoken, he shakes his head. “A doom?” he asks, pitching his voice loud enough that all will hear him. “No, this is a gift!”

The other councilmembers quiet. Emboldened, he gets to his feet to address them. “A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring?”

Even as he speaks them, the words feel right. Yes, this is what he was brought here to do. This is how he can win the war, save his people, redeem himself for all his secret sins. “Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay,” he says, willing his voice to carry. “By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!”

For a moment no one speaks, and he thinks he has done it, convinced them. And then—

“You cannot wield it,” Thorongil says from behind him, steel in his voice. “None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master.”

Boromir spun to face him, face heating in anger. How dare he presume? As if knowing Boromir carnally granted him the right to take liberties, to speak as if they were equals. He lets his lip curl. “And what would a ranger know of this matter?”

One of the elves is jumping to his feet, and it is on the tip of Boromir’s tongue to tell him that this is men’s business, of no concern of elves—

“This is no mere ranger,” the elf spits. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

—and whatever words Boromir might have spoken die in his throat.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

Heir to the throne of Gondor.

Rage hits him, fierce and hot. And with it, the slick burn of betrayal.

The man who means to steal his father’s kingdom raises his head, looks him steady in the eyes. When last Boromir had met that gaze, they had both been panting in lust, skin pressed fast against skin, as close as two men could be.

Now the other man’s eyes are cool, and hard.

Had Aragorn known, as he fucked himself on Boromir’s cock, that he was fucking the steward’s son? Had that made the conquest sweeter? Boromir feels sick as he toys with the possibilities, picking them apart in his mind like crows do carrion.

There is nothing he can say. He stumbles backwards, collapses into his seat.

The rest of the meeting proceeds in a blur. He finds himself agreeing to things that his father would never countenance, things that would make the men of his councils hang their heads in shame. Destroy the ring! And carry it to Mordor to do so! He should protest, he should make them see what is so clear to him, and to any reasoned man: that this is madness that will end in their deaths and the deaths of all free men of the west besides.

But he does not say it. He is flatfooted and tongue tied, and every time he opens his mouth the words that emerge are ungainly and awkward.

Before long he gives up on speaking and focuses on the ring as the others talk. It is still entrancing: the burnished gold, the warmth, the sparkle in the sunlight. But his eyes, traitors that they are, cannot help but stray back to Aragorn, again and again.

He tries closing his eyes, but then the memories come of how Aragorn had looked above him, panting with exertion, mouth thrown open and eyes clenched shut. He tries to listen to the council’s deliberations, but all he can hear are the sounds Aragorn had made as he took Boromir inside himself: the cries, the gasps, the moans.

It is a very long meeting.

Finally— _finally—_ the elves have nothing more to say and Lord Elrond formally ends the discussion. There is some talk of a banquet and entertainment, but Boromir hears none of it.

With a start, he sees Aragorn standing from his chair and heading his way. Boromir watches with something akin to horror as Aragorn extends a hand towards him in some sort of entreaty.

It is a matter of pride, that he has never run from a battle—but he runs from this one. He turns tail like the most craven of soldiers and flees from the gathering, so that the chatter of the halflings and the murmur of the elves grows quieter and quieter, until there is only his own harsh panting and the slap of his soles against the flagstones for company.

He strides—he does not run, he does _not_ —with no destination in mind, seeking only away, wherever that might lead him. The halls are not laid out like those of the white city, or indeed those of any city of men he has visited. They twist like the eddies of a stream or the coils of a serpent, around and back in on themselves. The elves must have an abhorrence of straight lines; there is no symmetry or sense to their paths. He quickly finds himself very lost indeed.

Darkness falls.

He thinks to swallow his pride, call out. Surely someone will hear him, if only a maid or a scullion. It would gall him, to admit he had gotten lost like a wayward child, but it would mean food and a bed.

Footsteps break through his indecision. They draw closer, and he lets out the breath he’d been holding. A servant, most likely. He will apologize for his intrusion and ask for directions back to his quarters, and that will be that.

His relief is short lived as the footsteps turn the corner, and Aragorn looks back at him.

“Well met,” Aragorn says at length. He walks closer, telegraphing his motions as one might do to avoid startling a feral horse.

Boromir doesn’t bother responding to the greeting.

A long silence. “We must speak of it,” Aragorn says at last.

Boromir isn’t sure whether Aragorn means they must speak of their coupling or of Aragorn’s heritage, but he has no desire to discuss the former. If they must talk, he can dredge up outrage about the latter, at least.

“Speak of your name?” he asks. He tries to keep his voice light, but he can tell he fails by the way Thorongil—Aragorn, his name is Aragorn—narrows his eyes. “For we did not speak of it then; you did not see fit to tell me as you—” words fail him, and he turns to deal a savage kick at the wall. He takes a deep breath. It will not do to act as a surly child; he is a knight of Gondor and the Steward’s son. “I did not use some false name or alias. I gave you my name. My true name.”

Aragorn sighs. “Forgive me, but I did not know it as such. It had been a long time since I had been to the White City. And I did not mean to mislead you or play you false; Thorongil has ever been the name I have used there.”

For all that this is clearly meant as an apology, it only spurs Boromir’s anger to greater heights. “You know not the names of the Steward or his kin, you bear a false name yourself when you visit. How dare you call yourself Aragorn?”

Aragorn sighs again. “It is the name I was born with.”

Pfah, but it is like arguing with a rock. 

“Boromir.”

Oh, what it does to hear his name in Aragorn’s mouth. That is the worst indignity of it all: even though Aragorn is his enemy and has treated him unjustly, he cannot help but _want_ him. “What?” he says with ill grace.

Aragorn hesitates. “There is another thing we should discuss.”

Something unpleasant twists in Boromir’s belly. “There is nothing to discuss.”

“If we are to travel together…”

To travel together. To fight side by side. To sleep tucked against each other for warmth on cold nights, so close that Aragorn could ruck his blanket over the two of them and thrust his hand down Boromir’s breeches, taking him firmly in hand. So close that they could rut against each other in the night, biting each other’s forearms to keep from crying out and waking the others…

Boromir swallows roughly. “What of it?”

Aragorn has the grace to wince, at least. “Surely something is to be said about our last meeting?”

Boromir glares. What does Aragorn want from him? A promise that Boromir will not tell tales of their shame to the other members of the party? An assurance that Boromir won’t molest him in his sleep? “I have nothing to say of it except this: it was wrong,” he says. _The truth._ “I desire to never speak of it again,” he adds. _The truth._ “It meant nothing to me.” _A lie._

Aragorn stares at him, as if taking his measure. Ah, but why do those dark eyes seem to see everything, most of all those shameful thoughts that Boromir wishes he could keep hidden?

Whatever Aragorn sees in him, it makes him shake his head. “As you wish,” he says. He turns, walking back the way he came.

Boromir stands alone in the falling night, wondering why he feels as if he failed a test he didn’t know he was taking.


End file.
